Live, Spenser, ever in thy Fairy Queen;
Whose like, for deep conceit, was never seen!
Crowned mayst thou be, unto thy more renown,
As King of Poets, with a laurel crown!
And DANIEL, praisèd for thy sweet-chaste Verse,
Whose fame is graved on ROSAMOND'S black hearse,.
Still mayst thou live! and still be honoured
For that rare Work, The White Rose and the Red.
And DRAYTON, whose well-written Tragedies
And sweet Epistles soar thy fame to skies!
Thy learned name is equal with the rest;
Whose stately Numbers are so well addrest.
And SHAKESPEARE, thou, whose honey-flowing vein,
Pleasing the World, thy praises doth obtain;
Whose VENUs, and whose LUCRECE Sweet and chaste,
Thy name in Fame's immortal book have placed.
Live ever you! at least, in fame live ever!
Well may the body die; but fame dies never!
'SIR PAINTER! Are thy colours ready set?
My Mistress cannot be with thee to-day;
She's gone into the field, to gather May,
The timely Primrose, and the Violet!
Yet, that thou mayst not disappointed be;
Come, draw her picture by my fantasy!
'And well for thee! to paint her by thine ear:
For should thine eye unto that office serve,
Thine eye and hand, thy art and heart, would swerve!
Such majesty her countenance doth bear.
And where thou wert APELLES thought before;
For failing so, thou shouldst be praised no more!
'Draw first her Front! a perfect ivory white,
High, spacious, round, and smooth; on either side,
Her Temples, branched with veins blue, opening wide,
As in the map, Danubius runs in sight.
Colour her semicircled Brows with jet!
The throne where Love triumphantly doth sit.
'Regard her Eye! Her Eye, a wondrous part!
It woundeth deep; and cureth by-and-by!
It drives away; and draweth courteously!
It breeds, and calms, the tempest of the heart!
And what to lightning Jove belongeth to;
The same, her looks, with more effect can do!
'Her Cheek resembleth, every kind of way,
The lily stained with sweet ADONIS' blood,
As wounded, he strayed up and down the woód:
For whom fair VENUS languished many a day!
Or, plainly, more to answer your demand,
Her Cheeks are roses overcast with lawn!
'Her lovely Lip doth others' all excel!
On whom it please (ay me!) a kiss bestow;
He never tasteth afterward of woe!
Such special virtue in the touch doth dwell.
The colour, tempered of the morning red,
Wherewith AURORA doth adorn her head.
'Her ample Chest, a heavenly plot of ground!
The space between, a Paradise at least!
Parnassus-like, her twifold mounting breast!
Her heavenly graces heapingly abound!
Love spreads his conquering Colours in this Field;
Whereto the race of Gods and men do yield. . . .
'Before her Feet, upon a marble stone,
Inflamèd with the sunbeams of her eye, Depaint my heart, that burneth passionately! And if thy pencil can set down such moan Thy picture's self will feeling semblance make Of ruth and pity, for my torments' sake.
'How now, APELLES! Are thy senses ta'en?
Hast drawn a picture; or drawn out thy heart?
Wilt thou be held a Master of thine art;
And temper colours tending to thy bane?
Happy my heart! that in her sunshine fries,
Above thy hap; that in her shadow dies!'
My Thoughts are winged with Hopes; my Hopes, with Love!
Mount, Love, unto the moon, in clearest night! And say, 'As she doth in the heavens move, On earth so wanes, and waxeth, my delight!' And whisper this, but softly, in her ears,
'Hope oft doth hang the head; and Trust, shed tears!'
And you, my Thoughts, that some mistrust do carry,
If, for mistrust, my Mistress do you blame;
Say, 'Though you alter; yet you do not vary!
As She doth change, and yet remain the same.
Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect;
And love is sweetest, seasoned with suspect !'
If She, for this, with clouds do mask her eyes;
And make the heavens dark with her disdain:
With windy sighs, disperse them in the skies!
Or with thy tears, dissolve them into rain!
Thoughts, Hopes, and Love, return to me no more!
Till CYNTHIA shine, as she hath done before.
A CONTENTION BETWIXT A WIFE,
WIDOW, well met! Whither go you, to-day?
Will you not to this solemn offering go?
You know it is ASTREA's Holy Day!
The Saint to whom all hearts devotion owe.
WIDOW. Marry, what else! I purposed so to do.
Do you not mark, how all the Wives are fine!
And how they have sent presents ready too,
To make their offering at ASTREA's shrine!
See, then, the shrine; and tapers burning bright!
Come, friend! and let us first ourselves advance!
We know our place! and (if we have our right)
To all the parish we must lead the dance!
But, soft! what means this bold presumptuous Maid
To go before! without respect of us!
Your forwardness, proud Maid! must now be stayed!
Where learned you to neglect your betters thus?
Elder you are; but not my betters here!
This place, to Maids a privilege must give!
The Goddess, being a Maid, holds Maidens dear;
And grants to them her own prerogative.
Besides, on all true Virgins, at their birth,
Nature hath sent a crown of excellence;
That all the Wives and Widows of the earth
Should give them place, and do them reverence!
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